


Roses / Rose's

by Luthor



Category: Jane the Virgin (TV)
Genre: F/F, Mentions of alcoholism, Pining
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-06-02
Updated: 2018-06-02
Packaged: 2019-05-17 11:18:48
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,656
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14831291
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Luthor/pseuds/Luthor
Summary: Season One Roisa: Luisa struggles with what she wants to do, and what shecando, when it comes to Rose.“Luisa is exactly twenty-nine days sober, but every inappropriate thought of Rose feels like a relapse.Unfortunately, those are daily occurrences.”





	Roses / Rose's

The Marbella has exactly six sprawling gardens, and none of them have ever particularly caught Rose’s interest, especially the one now being modelled in her name.

Luisa understands this the moment the blueprints are revealed with champagne flutes and the unprecedented revelry that only her father could be capable of, given it is, after all, just a garden. _Rose’s_ garden, and so, _of course_. Luisa sips sparkling flavoured water from her champagne flute and tries not to focus too hard on her step-mother’s tight smile. This is a natural look for Rose, these days, one that Luisa has become very familiar with.

Rose has let herself become so accustomed to her own discomfort, Luisa doubts she even realises how miserable she looks, sometimes.

Truth be told, she wears repressed lesbian so goddamn well, Luisa doubts anybody really notices Rose’s discomfort, but her.

“Emilio has quite the penchant for surprises,” Luisa overhears Rose saying to a small crowd, and it’s met with laughter and her father’s wide-armed acceptance. He’s never denied it, and isn’t about to begin. He looks at Rose like she hangs the moon and all the stars; Luisa wonders if it’s genetic. “The garden will look gorgeous in the summer.”

“Not nearly,” her father begins, and Luisa presses her glass to her lips to keep from interrupting him with a groan; she knows exactly what will follow, and she does not want to hear, “as gorgeous as you.”

She turns her back to the scene, to the pair of them and the crowd and the adoring response. It is easier, some days, to see Rose and her father together. Others, it’s like accidentally walking in on your teenage brother with a clean sock and a tub of Vaseline. _Scarring_. Luisa takes her champagne flute with her across the room, to a wide-open door overlooking the land that was soon to be beautified into Rose’s garden. She isn’t necessarily against the new development; she might even appreciate a walk through it, once it’s complete.

Footsteps and a blurry presence in Luisa’s peripheral announce Rose’s arrival.

Luisa knows it’s her from the perfume and the gait of her heels. (Luisa knows it’s Rose because it always _is_ , especially when it shouldn’t be, especially when they _can’t_.) She half-turns to acknowledge her arrival, takes in the form-fitting skirt and blouse, and then back to the window. Like most things, Rose is best enjoyed in small doses. Then again, Luisa’s always had an addictive personality and difficulty telling herself _no_.

“It’s sweet,” Rose says, and Luisa turns to her again, frowning at the obvious defensiveness. “It _is_.”

“Really?” Luisa asks, smiling because she’s never really been able to stop herself, never really had a great sense of self-control around Rose, among other things. “A _rose garden_?”

“He means well—”

“If it wasn’t so corny, it would be hilarious.”

“Luisa,” Rose chides, but she’s smiling, and Luisa likes this too much, likes it when they appear to get along like step-mother and step-daughter, laughing about her father’s hopeless antics. If Luisa hadn’t had her fingers in Rose so many times, hadn’t become intimately familiar with the taste of her, with the look on her face when she reaches climax, and the flush that warms her from her cheeks to her feet afterwards, she might just be okay with the pretence of it all. As it is—

Luisa wants to turn to Rose and tell her, “You’re making a mistake. You don’t love him and he’d do anything for you. You’re manipulating him and I should hate you for it, but I can’t. If you left him tomorrow I’d ask you to run away with me, and I wouldn’t give a damn if it hurt my dad, and I hate that you bring the worst sides of me out. I hate that I’m aware enough to recognise that in myself, and still want you, regardless.”

She doesn’t say any of that aloud.

Instead, she knocks her glass back and the sparkling water burns down her throat like it could be something stronger, if she pretends hard enough.

“I should get going.”

Luisa feels Rose watching her as she departs. She doesn’t try to stop her.

 

 

Construction of the garden begins months later, but well in time to be completed for Rose’s birthday.

Luisa looks over the land from the balcony in her father’s personal suite and can imagine how gorgeous it’ll look once complete. They’ll be able to smell the roses all year round from here, she’d bet. The thought does little to lift her spirits. Behind her, Emilio places a hand on her arm, and Luisa turns into her father with a smile. It’s difficult, sometimes, to compartmentalise her love for her father from her love for his wife, and Emilio has noticed the strain in their relationship.

“Imagining what it’ll look like when it’s finished?” he asks, looking down on the abandoned equipment below with a smile that suggests he’s speaking from experience. He leans his arms against the balcony’s stone railing, pivoting one foot behind the other for balance, and turns to Luisa when her answer isn’t forthcoming.

“Sure,” Luisa agrees.

Emilio scrutinises the greenery, but his thoughts are far from the garden.

“You’re quiet,” he says, and Luisa knows he doesn’t just mean right now. She steps closer with a sigh, palms flat against the cool stone, leaning a hip into him. It’s a silent request for comfort, and her father has never refused her. Emilio straightens and wraps an arm around her back, drawing her in closer. She’s been taller than him since she started wearing high heels, but that’s never really stopped her from being his little girl. “You’d tell me if there was something wrong, wouldn’t you?”

“I think I’m in love with your wife,” she would say, if she were being honest.

Instead, she smiles, dismisses. “Yeah, I would, but nothing’s wrong.”

Emilio turns that same scrutinising look on her, but Luisa has had years to practice her poker face, and she is saved from further questioning by a ringing at the door. Emilio steps back from the edge of the balcony, but not before taking her hand in his and casting her a look so sober that Luisa doesn’t doubt that he sees right through her, sometimes.

“You can talk to me, Luisa, if you’re struggling—”

“Dad, I’m really—”

“—there’s no shame in reaching out.”

He looks at her like he needs her to know this, and Luisa’s rebuttals are instantly quelled. She deflates with a breath and nods her head. “Thanks,” she says, quietly, and it’s less about appeasing him, now, and more about appeasing her own guilt. “But I’m honestly okay.” Emilio looks like he wants to say more, but a conversation at the entrance to his suite draws his attention.

With a final look, he returns indoors, and Luisa follows when she realises they’re not alone.

“Lunch has arrived,” says Rose, having dismissed the attendant who’d brought the silver trolley to the room. She wheels it further in, but can barely take three steps before Emilio unburdens her. Luisa has to side-step to allow him space to get around to the little table and chairs on the balcony, and it brings her closer to Rose. “Luisa,” she says, smiles cautiously.

Luisa returns it.

Rose is dressed for the weather in a revealing white blouse and a skirt that shows just a hint more leg than usual. Luisa’s always been a leg girl and Rose is well aware; that she stares at Rose for a little too long is no fault of her own, not really. Rose clears her throat and Luisa breaks the spell with a hard dose of mortification. The smile on Rose’s lips is less cautious, now, as it is smug. She wears _that_ about as well as she does her outfit. Luisa wouldn’t mind ridding her of both.

“Ladies,” Emilio says from the balcony doors, breaking tension he neither recognises nor would understand. “Come sit, please, before the lemonade turns warm.”

Rose’s demeanor slides easily into Perfect Wife as she joins Emilio on the balcony. Luisa stares after her, frowning, before following suit.

“I thought you said it would just be us,” she says to her father, nonetheless taking a seat.

Emilio pours three glasses of lemonade.

“The salon brought my mid-day appointment forward,” Rose explains, thanking Emilio for her drink. She meets Luisa’s eyes across the lunch spread, taking a quick sip of lemonade. She leaves an imprint of lipstick around the rim of her glass, and Luisa can’t seem to take her eyes away from it. Taking his seat, now, Emilio begins to fill his own plate. “You don’t mind?”

“Yeah, actually,” Luisa _wants_ to say.

She’s sure Rose understands from her expression alone, and that’s enough, at least with her father sitting right there.

“Of course, not,” she says, instead, not missing Emilio’s encouraging glance. “Not at all.”

Luisa is reaching for a salad bowl when Emilio’s cell phone begins to ring. She catches his apologetic glance as he reaches into an inside jacket pocket to retrieve it. Across from her, Rose watches her husband with quiet interest. They have a No Phones at the Table rule that Emilio can’t seem to help but break. Luisa finds it mildly hilarious that the rule is still standing, but then she’s always known Rose to be _persistent_.

Emilio, with his phone still in hand, hesitates to decline the call.

“Who is it?” Rose asks, filling her plate, but there’s a note of interest in her tone. Emilio flashes the screen to her, expression pleading. Rose squints at the name, but appears to recognise it; her lips purse with vague displeasure, but she nods to Emilio as if granting him permission to answer. “Remember you have a meeting at one,” she tells him, and Emilio is already standing.

He dismisses himself with a hasty apology, answering the phone before he’s even left his suite.

Luisa stares after him, at the door that had closed behind him, and deflates back into her seat. “So much for catching up,” she mutters, and then stands.

Rose’s hand at her wrist stops her; she fights not to draw her hand back as though shocked, but only because Rose’s touch has exactly the opposite, impossible effect on her. She does cast the hand in question a quiet glance, and Rose removes it with grace. “You’ve not even eaten,” Rose says, gesturing to the spread of food that they have been left with. “At least have lunch with me while you’re here.”

Luisa wants to hesitate.

She _should_ decline, respectfully, politely, and get the hell out of there.

Rose isn’t exactly a bottle of Patrón, but Luisa’s sure drawn to her like she is. There’s no AA equivalent for ex-lovers, though, and nobody else here to judge her when she re-takes her seat and tries not to _glow_ from the attention of Rose’s pleased smile. Luisa is exactly twenty-nine days sober, but every inappropriate thought of Rose feels like a relapse.

Unfortunately, those are daily occurrences.

“So,” Rose says once Luisa begins to fill her plate. She tops up her lemonade, stalling, and Luisa understands why as soon as she opens her mouth again. “Your father’s concerned about you.”

Luisa, about to pop a cherry tomato past her lips, lowers her fork with a sigh.

“Don’t,” she says, quiet.

“He’s worried that you’re—” Rose cuts herself off, watching Luisa closely.

“Go on,” Luisa prompts her. “He’s worried that I’m, what? Hiding a past relationship with his wife from him?”

Rose’s expression turns guarded.

“He’s worried that you’re drinking again,” she says after a pause.

In the silence that follows, Luisa contemplates leaving the table after all, but in the end there’s just too much that she wants to say. There’s too much that will fester, that will eat her alive, if she continues to repress it. “You can’t do this,” she says, then, wetting her lips. She returns her cutlery to her plate, appetite lost. “You can’t pretend to care for the both of us.”

Rose reaches across the table, soft fingers over Luisa’s hand.

“I _do_ care,” she says, and Luisa can’t see a hint of a lie on her face, but she also understands that she’s not exactly an objective judge of character when it comes to Rose. “Of course, I do, which is why if you are— _struggling_ again, you can open up to me. I will help you. Your father will help you. You know we’re here to support you, we can get you the best resources, anything you need.”

Luisa winces. “God, stop… stop doing that. You sound like my mother.”

Rose deadpans her back. “Aren’t you a little old for this? I’m not your wicked step-mother, Luisa, and you’re an alcoholic. I worry.”

“Really? You worry? Then maybe you should consider that being married to my dad is causing just a little strain on my emotional wellbeing, when you do _this_ ,” and she turns her hand over in Rose’s, links their fingers, brandishes them both entwined like that like an evidence baggie. Rose stares at their hands; while her expression is guarded, Luisa recognises distress. She tries to unlink their fingers, but Luisa’s grip is stronger, and Rose’s heart isn’t in the struggle.

“Luisa,” she says, warning, but Luisa doesn’t care who sees her, doesn’t care if her father returns suddenly to his suite, or if the entire Marbella crew stood beneath the balcony to bare witness to all of this. Rose must recognise this from the look on Luisa’s face, and she panics. “Don’t do this,” she says, “you know it can’t happen.”

“Do I?” Luisa _wants_ to ask, wants to prod and poke, like Rose is a bear and Luisa a martyr. “What I do know is that you want me, and every time you avoid me, every time you _deny_ yourself of me, it gets harder and harder for you to do it again. You’re going to break, Rose, and when you do it’s going to be catastrophic. You’re toying with me, with my father, with our lives here. The worst part of it is, if you’re not doing it for the money, then I don’t know why else you would. That’s the truly depressing part of this, isn’t it? That you’re in love with me, but my father’s money takes priority over that. You’ve got no idea what you’re doing to yourself, Rose, and god damnit but I’m going to be there for you when you do.”

Instead:

Luisa releases Rose’s hand.

“Yeah,” she says, but she’s losing her voice, “I know it can’t.”

Rose does not stop her when Luisa next stands to leave.

 

 

The rose garden is completed a week prior to Rose’s birthday.

The lush display of flowers is complemented with a considerable trellis and a stone gazebo just far enough away from any main path that the space has already been secured for private events for the next six months. For now, though, the winding hedgerows and maze-like rosebushes are off-limits to the public until the official opening ceremony.

Luisa, however, has never considered herself _the public_ when it comes to the Marbella.

Without the garden maintenance crew, or the guests, the rose garden is probably the quietest public space within the entire hotel grounds, and she relishes in it for the short period that she can. Luisa pauses by a fountain that isn’t yet running and sits on the stone edge of it. She closes her eyes and inhales the sweet, warm air like it’s a balm to her nerves.

This is how she’s happened upon, then, by the heeled gait of the woman who's been colonising her thoughts since she first met her.

Rose looks sorry to have disturbed her, when Luisa looks to her. Whether it’s because of the garden’s pre-sunset glow acting as an anaesthetic, or that Luisa is never _really_ unhappy to see Rose, but all she can offer in way of greeting is a lazy smile. It’s all Rose needs, though; she returns Luisa’s smile with one of her own (dazzling) and takes the seat beside her.

She’s close enough for Luisa to recognise that her perfume along with the sun-warmed rose petals is probably the best thing she’s ever smelled in her life.

“This garden isn’t open yet,” Rose says, leaning back on her hands and enjoying the view. They’re perfectly enclosed in a circle of rosebushes, just them and the waterless fountain, like their own private island. Luisa could only wish for as much. “You’re not supposed to be here.” There’s humour in Rose’s voice – fondness – that Luisa can’t help but warm to.

“Neither are you,” she returns, and they share a look.

“It’s so peaceful out here,” Rose says.

“For now.”

Rose hums agreement, but when Luisa turns to see her, her eyes are closed and there’s a smile on her face.

Luisa’s never seen anything so beautiful, but then she thought as much just last week, when she’d caught Rose peeling a mandarin and Rose had offered her a slice; or three days before that, when Rose had bent and fumbled to get a stone out of her shoe, all while balancing precariously against the main desk; or the night before that, when Rose was—

Beauty is something that Luisa defines and redefines every time she meets Rose’s gaze, but she’d have it no other way.

Here is what Luisa wants to say to Rose, when she sees her like this, when she feels so relaxed that she could say anything now and it couldn’t spoil this feeling: “I love you. I think I’ve been in love with you since I first saw you, and I’ve never even believed in that crap. I can barely believe this has happened, that I had you, that I _don’t_ , now.

“Leave him, Rose. Leave him, let’s run away. I’ll go anywhere with you, you know I will, I don’t care where we end up or what we have to do to get there. I can’t promise you that I won’t want to come back, eventually, or that we’ll have even half as comfortable a life that we do here, but I can promise you one thing. You will never not be loved, or taken care of, or a _priority_ , if you’re with me.”

And here is what she wants to hear back, in return: “I’m sorry, Luisa, that I ever put you through this. You know how I feel about you, how I’ve always felt about you. I’d take you anywhere you wanted to go, and I don’t care if we never come back here, I don’t care what happens as long as I have you. I’ll never hurt you like this again, I promise. I _promise_.”

And Luisa would accept it, she would take it, take Rose and a bag too small to fit even half of her life in, and she’d go.

A warm breeze tickles the back of Luisa’s neck, carries her hair away from her as it carries the fantasy away, too. She cannot give up hope that that’s all this will ever be – fallacy, wishful thinking, a past and no present and no future. She looks at Rose, and in the silence Rose must feel it, must sense it, for she opens her eyes and she sees her.

Luisa is an open book for Rose to read through at her leisure. She gives and she gives, and the longing pours off her like water, and for a second Rose looks like she’s drowning in it, in her, in the situation that they’ve created, and Luisa just doesn’t understand. She doesn’t understand why there’s a _situation_ at all, when the solution is so easy. She shakes her head, closes her eyes, wets her lips and looks away.

Beside her, Rose is a constant in her peripheral. Luisa does not see the outstretched hand, posed to comfort, struggling until it’s lowered again.

“Lu,” Rose says, quiet as a whisper, afraid that she will shatter something. Afraid that she will shatter.

Luisa turns to her and is filled suddenly with the weight of her own wanting. She is exhausted by it. “How long are we going to do this for?” she asks, and Rose’s brow falters in confusion. Luisa inhales, draws strength from the fact that this may be the only time in a long time that she feels ready enough to say these words, and speaks. “When will this end? When will we stop?”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” Rose says, and she’s lying.

Luisa closes her eyes.

It takes her too long to compose herself, and when she opens them again, Rose’s expression is a guarded veneer.

“Well,” Luisa begins, quietly, carefully, “when you do, when you’re ready, you know what I want, don’t you?”

She meets Rose’s eyes, hoping that she is just open enough to coax something out of Rose, if only even a response.

“You know, don’t you?” she repeats.

Her gaze is unrelenting. She will not let this go, not until she has _acknowledgement_ , not until she has _confirmation_ —

“Yes,” Rose whispers.

It is all Luisa will get, but it is enough. It is enough.

“Okay.”

When she stands, her legs are shaky and the rose garden has cooled, tepid like lukewarm water. Luisa breathes deeply to clear her head, but the air is too sweet, is too cloying. She presses a hand to her chest and feels her heart, wild, beneath her palm. She does not look back as she leaves the rose garden and makes her disoriented way back to her rooms.

  
At the fountain with the cool, blue twilight about her, Rose sits in the quiet and reevaluates the five-step plan that does not include love, _Luisa_.

There is a lump in her throat when she swallows.

**Author's Note:**

> hey guys, just a quick note to say i'm going down with this ship and accepting prompts for them over on [tumblr](http://luthorao3.tumblr.com/). hmu :)


End file.
